


Nadir

by Ostentenacity



Series: creatures of habit [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Canon Compliant (except for the daemons obviously), Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Melancholy Ending, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity/pseuds/Ostentenacity
Summary: The worst part of the Buried is…---While in the coffin, Jon and Daisy (and their daemons) do some introspection.
Series: creatures of habit [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173755
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	Nadir

**Author's Note:**

> Major CW for confinement/claustrophobia/statement-typical Buried, particularly in the fifth section (beginning with “...as his tears of anger and pain drip down” and ending at the next section break, if you want to skip it). Other content warnings, and AU notes, can be found at the end of the work.
> 
> This fic takes place before [“It Won’t Be Long”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616592).
> 
> Shout-out to Ohata-kaki for beta reading!

The worst part of the Buried, Jon thinks, as he climbs grimly downward, is its deceptive passivity. It’s not enough to have the earth swallow him whole; he has to be complicit in his own undoing. If he were to sit down here in this narrow, damp tunnel and refuse to move another step, the walls would stop closing in. He’d still be stuck forever, of course, but at least he wouldn’t have to face the crushing weight of earth that lies ahead.

But he can’t just stop, can he? That’s the whole point. He still has hope—a ridiculous, foolish hope—that he can still find what he came here for. That he can still make his way back out again. 

“Jon! Hurry up!” Theodora’s tail lashes impatiently, colliding with the walls on both sides. “The sooner we find Daisy and Ewein, the sooner we’ll be out of here.” She turns and scampers ahead, forcing Jon to stumble along behind, lest the separation between them grow too painful. 

Like every single other victim of the coffin, Jon digs his way deeper into the hole.

* * *

The worst thing about this place, Daisy thinks, as she tries once more to find her way back to the relatively open passage she’d started out in, is the way it obliterates her sense of time. It could have been days since she first found herself in this twisting tunnel, which somehow managed to get narrower no matter which way she walked along. It could have been minutes. It could have been months.

(It could have been _centuries,_ she thinks, and then scolds herself for thinking nonsense.)

She thinks, probably, she should have started to feel hungry by now. Hungry for real food, that is. Though she probably should have started to hunger for something to do, someone to _chase,_ as well. It’s been years since she has gone so long without sustenance. Probably. Hopefully.

In the back of her mind, of course, she knows where she is. She’s not stupid. Just in denial. If she doesn’t say it, if she doesn’t _think_ it, then maybe it won’t be true. Maybe the explosion knocked her into an ordinary fissure in the earth, and not—

Ewein whines, staring up at her out of the corner of his eye in that peculiarly judgemental way all dogs seem to know how to do instinctively. 

Daisy takes a deep breath. In, out. Ignores the fact that the tunnel is so narrow that she barely fits inside, even sideways. She’ll make it out, or die trying. Those are the only two options.

(Those are not the only two options.)

* * *

The worst part of the Buried, Jon thinks, as he wriggles his way through a passage too narrow for even his scrawny form, is the dirt. Sometimes the passageways are made of rough stone, bruising him as he squeezes past. Sometimes he’s surrounded by tree roots; once, memorably, he found himself inching through a crawlspace of poured concrete and exposed pipes. But worst of all is when the unyielding walls give way to soft, crumbling soil. 

It smells foul, and tastes worse. Tiny motes of dirt drop onto his exposed face. They clog up his nose, and then coat his tongue once he has no choice except to breathe through his mouth. Theodora has tried to lick herself clean a few times since the journey started, and each time, it’s been cut short by a whine of disgust the moment her tongue had touched her fur. 

It’s dark down here, but not utterly so, at least not all the time; every now and then, the passageway grows just light enough for Jon to see exactly how impossibly narrow the next tight squeeze will be. He’s not exactly sure where the light is coming from—he has yet to spot any sources of illumination—but it keeps happening nevertheless.

Once, before a particularly tight sharp turn, Theo pauses, and looks back at Jon, her eyes gleaming in the faint, otherworldly light. Jon kneels next to her as best he can without getting stuck, and reaches out a hand to stroke her head. He can barely feel the texture of her fur under the dirt caked in it, and on his hand.

“When we get out of here,” he says, not bothering to hide the way his voice trembles, “we’re going to give you a bath. A real one, in a bathtub, with soap.”

“Good,” says Theo fervently, not even bothering to attempt a wisecrack about cats and water.

She doesn’t say anything, but Jon knows that she’s thinking the same thing that he is: that it feels as though the grime will never wash out. That maybe, coming in here was a mistake that will mark them both forever; that, no matter how they try to expunge it, the stain of this place will linger on Jon’s soul as long as he lives.

* * *

The worst thing about the Buried, Daisy thinks, is having to be alone with herself.

She’s long since given up any hope of escaping alive. She’s even given up any hope of death. She rarely moves anymore; it only ever makes things worse. Instead, she just sits and thinks. 

She’s been sitting and thinking for a long time when a rough voice comes out of the darkness beside her. It’s one she hasn’t heard in years, but she doesn’t startle. Even after all this time, she’d know this voice before she knew her own.

“Alice?” Ewein rasps. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Daisy whispers. 

“How long has it been?”

“I dunno. I don’t think time... _works_ down here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” says Ewein, and then breaks off into a coughing fit. The dust in the air? Or the strain of speaking after years of only using his voice to bark, to growl, to whine? “How long’s it been since the last time I was able to talk to you?”

More than a decade. Perhaps more than two. Certainly, they haven’t spoken since she’d started calling herself Daisy. But she can’t remember any of their conversations from around that time anymore. They’d probably been short. Inconsequential. The hunger had come on so slowly, and by the time she’d realized Ewein didn’t— _couldn’t—_ speak anymore, well… 

It had been so much easier to just not think about it. 

“I don’t know that, either,” says Daisy. They both ponder that fact in silence.

“I don’t remember much,” says Ewein, eventually. “Everything’s muddled. Teeth and claws. Blood. Fear.”

“I would never have let anyone hurt you,” says Daisy.

“Not _my_ fear,” says Ewein. 

Daisy reaches out a hand towards him, but he scoots back until her fingertips barely miss his snout. His eyes gleam accusatively in the near-pitch dark of the tunnel. “I was making sure no one would hurt us,” says Daisy. It takes more effort than normal to make the words come out steady and sure. “That no one would ever hurt us, ever again.”

“You turned me into an animal,” says Ewein. “You turned me into a _predator._ And you _liked_ it. _We_ liked it.”

There is nothing Daisy can say to that.

* * *

The worst part of the Buried, Jon thinks, as his tears of anger and pain drip down the rock in front of his face, is the way it turns Theodora into part of his torture.

In the beginning, when the passages had still been wide enough to pass through with only minimal squeezing, her presence had been a comfort. Even as he’d travelled deeper into the crushing dark, it had been reassuring to hear the click of her claws against the stone, and know that no matter how far down he ended up, at least this place wasn’t interested in separating him from his daemon.

But it’s been a long time since Theodora had been able to walk on her own. The ground is too uneven, and more than once, she’s gotten stuck when trying to jump through a crevice that was narrower at the bottom than the top. Eventually Jon had given up, and begun to carry her tucked against his chest. It had been easier, at first.

Now, though, there is so little space that they have to take turns inhaling. When they both try to breathe in at once, there is nowhere for the air to go. And Jon catches himself thinking, not once but several times, that it would be easier if she weren’t there. That he would give up anything, _anything,_ for the tiniest bit of extra space.

Jon knows enough about the Buried to realize that it’s not actually trying to separate them. That would run contrary to its purpose; it may occasionally dabble in isolation, but the division of the self is outside its purview. What it’s after is the resentment that is building up beneath his breastbone. Not the act of separation, but the monstrous longing for it. 

If he and Theo tried to go in opposite directions, he knows they would each find the way ahead blocked. Not difficult, not painful; simply impossible. It's for this reason that he chooses _not_ to propose the idea, and he suspects that Theo has also figured out the same thing, because she, too, remains silent. It is the only form of resistance they can muster; if they don’t try to go their separate ways in the first place, the coffin won't get the satisfaction of their mutual horrified realization that there is no escape from each other’s presence.

* * *

The worst thing about having escaped the Buried, Daisy reflects, is that sometimes, impossibly, she finds herself missing it.

With the crushing weight of the earth above her, it was impossible to hear the siren song of the blood. There was nothing to chase—indeed, there was nowhere to run—and so, in her confinement, she’d been free. But now, the power and purpose she’s been pursuing for most of her life is _right there,_ and the only thing stopping her from going right back to it is her own conscience, her own force of will. 

Her own force of will, and the looks Ewein keeps shooting her every time she thinks about giving in.

Sometimes, in her most selfish moments, she remembers the way Ewein used to be, back when they were both in the grip of the Hunt. Mindless, yes; vicious, yes. But obedient, too. Affectionate, sometimes, in his way. And, most importantly, utterly unable to force her to think about topics she’d rather avoid. It wouldn’t be hard to go back to that. Ewein wouldn’t even remember the way he is now. He’d never know that she’d betrayed him.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t do it. It’s selfishness, of course; selfishness of the highest degree, that after hurting so many people, the one person she can’t bring herself to harm is her own daemon. But it keeps her away from the blood, from the chase, from the hunt. It’s worth it, even if Ewein still barely speaks to her. Even if he keeps his distance—from her, from Theodora, from everyone. Even if he still looks at her with mistrust in his eyes. It’s worth it. She _won’t_ give in. 

Even though she’s sure it would feel just as much a relief as a betrayal.

(In the end, it’s neither. The person she’s become is already gone before she has a chance to feel either one.)

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: confinement, difficulty breathing, allusions to canon-typical violence & abuse of power in Daisy’s past, dirt/filth, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it allusion to suicidality.
> 
> In this work:  
> \- Jon's daemon, Theodora (Theo): Russian Blue housecat  
> \- Daisy's daemon, Ewein: bullmastiff
> 
> Tell me your favorite line, if you like :)


End file.
